Father's Day
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: John forgets that it's Father's Day, even if Sam and Dean didn't. Pre-series. Weechesters! Warning: fluff and angst!


**Father's Day**

**by kellyofsmeg**

**Summary: John forgets that it's Father's Day, even if Sam and Dean didn't. Pre-series. Weechesters! Warning: fluff and angst!**

Limping, covered in soot, dirt, and blood that wasn't entirely his own, John Winchester dragged his aching bones out of a thick, dark evergreen forest and into a clearing illuminated by the first embers of daylight. His car was in sight, parked a couple hundred yards away. Every step was agony. The sprained ankle he could live with; it was the pressure on his heart that really pained him, lingering from when the vengeful spirit had plunged her fist into his chest and literally tried to squeeze the life out of him with a vice grip on his heart. But he'd managed to throw the lighter into the unmarked grave despite that, and the spirit had burnt up along with her carefully concealed bones, buying her a one-way ticket to wherever it is ghosts go when they die. Again.

He'd felt for the spirit, as much as it was possible for him to sympathize with any of the things he hunted. He'd be pissed off too if he'd been kidnapped, murdered, was buried in an unmarked grave and his disappearance went unsolved, his killer unpunished. But that didn't excuse Lauren Wilkinson's ghost for taking out her anguish on innocent people. She had to be stopped, so John had done his job and put her to rest for good. As for the werewolf lurking in the very same woods—well, that had been bit of a surprise, but made sense for why not all the killings in the camping grounds had the exact same manifestations. Luckily for him he still had the silver bullets Dean had helped him melt down from antique silverware one Saturday when there was nothing on TV.

At last, John managed to drag himself to his car. He opened up his trunk, where he deposited his shotgun and revolver in his concealed weapons compartment, setting the bag of rock salt and can of gasoline on top of that. Since there was no one in sight at this early hour, John felt no hesitation in stripping out of his dirty, blood-soaked clothes and into a clean pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, making himself look socially presentable and not like he'd just been on a killing spree. Not to mention he wasn't crazy about getting blood on the upholstery.

John folded himself into the driver's seat, his muscles protesting his every movement. He set his duffel bag on the passenger's seat and rooted around for his first aid kit. He felt his fingers graze what felt like a small, thin package wrapped in newspaper. He lifted it out and saw it was just that.

John stared down at the small parcel in his hands. One of his kids must have slipped it in his bag before he left. It was wrapped in the comics page, which he always extracted from his newspapers and gave to the boys to read. Realizing he was staring at the side with the seam of tape, John turned it over and found the word "DAD" in red crayon, written in Dean's hand.

John ripped back the paper and found himself staring at a Popsicle stick frame, still slightly sticky Popsicle sticks were decorated with colored markers and held together with school glue, surrounding a Polaroid of him and his boys, taken a few weeks ago taken by Jim Murphy in his front yard with Sam's brand new Polaroid camera, a present from his fifth birthday. John had been engaging in some good old fashioned rough-and-tumble horseplay with his boys because both of them loved it. Dean had been hanging off John's neck and John in turn had Sammy gripped around his middle, hanging upside down when Jim had snapped the picture. None of them had been expecting it. They had all looked up at the flash, the laughter still frozen on their faces, mingled with surprise.

He recalled Sammy spreading out his collection of snapshots over the faded floral motel bedspread: pictures of insects he'd caught, his action figures posing in various fight scenes, a shot of his Breakfast Slammer Platter at a pit stop diner, his beat up Converse high-tops, a close-up of Dean sleeping, and a snapshot of the back of John's head while was was driving were among the random assortment. Sitting beside him on the bed, Sam had held up the picture of the three of them roughhousing and declared, "I like this one the best."

"Why's that, buddy?" John had asked, secretly in agreement with his son, even though the one of Dean sleeping with his mouth wide open, snoring and drooling on his pillow was funny in an unflattering sort of way.

"Because it's not fake," Sam had explained. "Lotsa times when someone takes a picture they go, 'Smile! Say cheese!' Well, Pastor Jim didn't tell us to smile. We already were smiling. Jim just took the picture." Sam then laid the Polaroid back down with the others. "We were really happy."

John traced his fingers over the Polaroid, smiling sadly. He missed his boys tremendously whenever he was away on a hunt. And when he'd been beaten down—when he found himself staring into the mouth of the beast, looking death in the eye—it was the thought of returning home to his sons that always got John to drag his battered and bloodied body off the ground and keep fighting. Sometimes he would find himself wondering if it was worth it—saving people's lives and coming back to find his sons both looking taller than when he'd left them. The only way he could appease his conscience was to tell himself Sam and Dean didn't need him constantly. They had each other, a rotating trusted caregiver, and he would return to them soon. It didn't stop him from lying awake at night, tossing and turning and wondering how his boys were doing—and being more afraid that they were getting along just fine without him than any of the evil things he faced.

John stared at the picture, drinking it in. Sam and Dean would be waking up in a couple of hours, and he desperately wished he was with them—attempting to cook them breakfast that would in all likelihood end up burnt but still edible. Bobby would be waving his worn-out baseball cap under the beeping smoke detector and ask him sarcastically, "Where'd you learn to be such a five-star gourmet chef?" John would have breakfast waiting for them when the boys finally emerged in Bobby's kitchen in their pajamas, both yawning and sporting impressive bedheads. They would undeniably bicker over which plate had more food, even though he had divided up the bacon, scrambled eggs and toast as evenly as possible to avoid the age-old conflict. Dean would argue that he should get more food because he's the oldest, but would ultimately give into his little brother when he gave him _that look, _like he was a damn puppy in a kennel with a drip. As he drank his morning coffee, John would silently thank Dean with a smile over the top of his newspaper for averting a full-blown Sammy fit—something nobody wanted to hear first thing in the morning. The imagined scenario of what he could be doing right now instead of sitting in his car alone in the middle of nowhere made his chest ache even more.

He turned the picture over to see if there was anything on the back and felt his breath catch in his throat. His heart seized like the ghost had it in a death grip all over again. On the back of the Polaroid, Dean had written in the same red crayon, "_HAPPY FATHER'S DAY! You're the coolest Dad EVER!_" and underneath, Sam had scrawled in blue crayon, "_We mis you! Come home reel soon! Love Sammy_" it switched back to Dean's red writing, "…_and Dean!_"

John looked heavenward, clutching the homemade-framed picture to his chest. Was it Sunday already? He counted on his fingers. The third Sunday in June…it was Father's Day. How the hell had he forgotten that?

"_Would you have put off the hunt if you'd remembered?"_ he heard Bobby's voice nag in his head.

John refused to acknowledge the Bobby in his head; he was afraid of what his answer might be. Father's Day had went uncelebrated growing up, as his old man had walked out on him when he was just four years old. The holiday had no significance to him whatsoever until after Dean was born. He could still remember the morning when he felt a sudden weight on his chest and warm milky baby breath on his neck—round, chubby hands patting the side of his unshaven face that wasn't buried in his pillow. He remembered slowly opening one sleep-heavy eye to see Dean laying on his chest, almost nose-to-nose with him, smiling toothlessly as Mary sat on the bed beside him with her hand on their five-month-old son's back.

"Wake up, honey. Dean's got a present for you," Mary had whispered. "It's not in his diaper, is it?" John had murmured sleepily into his pillow. He remembered Mary laughing then, her tone musical. "Say good morning to Daddy, Dean," Mary had said in a sing-song voice. "It's his first Father's Day."

John had miraculously found himself instantly awake. He hadn't even realized…his first Father's Day. He liked the sound of that. He'd done the whole breakfast-in-bed and flowers thing for Mary on Mother's Day, giving Dean the credit. Mother's Day he was good at, had grown up acknowledging and knew the drill. Father's Day was a different story…he hadn't expected anything, hadn't even remembered. Time to turn over a new leaf, being on the other side of it now.

"I completely forgot today was Father's Day," John had murmured. He remembered sitting up with his baby cradled against his chest, pressing his lips to the top of Dean's head on his soft downy hair.

"Well, you're never going to forget again now you're a Daddy, are you?" Mary teased. "Guess not," John had smiled, rubbing circles on Dean's back. In its rotation, his hand brushed over felt a strange, rectangle-shaped lump sticking out of the elastic waistband of Dean's pajama bottoms. He had cast a curious look at Mary, looking beside herself in anticipation, before sliding whatever the 'present' was from Dean's waistband. It was a new black leather wallet wrapped with a red ribbon. "I know you needed a new one. Dean picked it out," Mary explained.

"Dean has very good taste," said John in approval, sliding the ribbon off and flicking the wallet open with one hand. Mary had already taken the liberty of filling up the pull-out photo album with pictures of Dean through the ages—including Dean swaddled in his plastic bassinet the day he was born, a shot of Mary holding newborn Dean on her lap the day they drove home from the hospital, John bottle-feeding one-month-old Dean in his nursery's rocking chair, two-month-old Dean asleep in his crib and sucking on practically his whole fist, three-month-old Dean blowing spit bubbles in his car seat, and of course, the classic baby bare-bottomed shot of Dean on a faux bearskin rug taken just last week.

"Thank you," John had whispered, touched, then hugged Dean with one arm, securing him as he reached out to Mary, drawing her closer to him, tipping her chin up and kissing her deeply. He remembered the feeling of absolute contentment he got from just lounging in bed that morning with his wife and baby son, the two people he loved more than anything else in the world. The only Father's Day memory he had that could compare was the year when it had been one-month old Sammy and four-year-old Dean who had woken him up on Father's Day with breakfast that Dean made and Mary had supervised. He'd shared the meal with Dean and Mary, who had tried one bite, covered her mouth and said, "Mmm, that's really good, sweetie," to Dean, but she had politely declined any further offered bites. John thought the homemade pancakes hadn't been half bad, especially once he convinced himself that the egg shells added texture and the extra salt was just added flavor.

In past years, Dean and Sam had always acknowledged Father's Day—cards with their hand prints in paint, clay figures Dean made at school and Sammy had scribbled on, a tie they had bought him with change they'd collected over the year…and they hadn't forgotten today, either. Even though he had.

John wasn't sure what he was more furious at—himself or the fact that his eyes were stinging. "Dammit!" he yelled, slamming his fists into the steering wheel, lowering his face into his bent arms. His shoulders shook uncontrollably as he let out all the shame and guilt he was feeling—and not just from today. Coming to his senses, John raised his head off the steering wheel and said aloud, "What the _hell _am I doing?"

John started up his car. Why was he wallowing in misery and self-hatred when there was still time to fix this? The day was young. If he canceled his side-trip to Caleb's and drove all day, he just might be able to make it back to Bobby's by nightfall—hopefully before Sam and Dean went to bed. They didn't expect him back until tomorrow morning at the earliest. He'd surprise them.

John propped the picture up on his dashboard, leaning it against the glass. _I'm coming, boys._

He drove almost non-stop from Kailispell, Montana to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, only stopping to refill his gas tank, not even bothering to take the time to wait in line and buy food at the convenience store. He consistently went above the speed limit, but it was worth an aching back, stiff legs and having to flash his FBI badge and declare he was on very important, secret government business to two separate traffic police when he saw the sign for SINGER AUTO in the distance under the last beams of daylight, and pulled down the long gravel driveway.

The car was still in motion when he saw the front door of Bobby's house fly open, almost swinging off its hinges. Sam and Dean must have heard the familiar sound of the Impala's engine approaching, as they were now barreling down the drive to meet him. He could hear five-year-old Sammy chanting, "Daddy! Daddy! Uncle Bobby—he's home early!" Grinning ear-to-ear, John put the car in park and turned it off, barely having time to open his car door before his sons were on him. Here it was—his favorite part of a hunt: the welcoming party upon his return.

"Hey, boys," John grunted as Sam collided with him, followed by Dean, almost knocking him back down into his car seat. "Happy Father's Day!" Sam yelled as he picked both his sons up and hugged them tightly, breathing in their familiar scents.

"Thanks, Sammy. I'm sorry, boys," John said in quiet anguish, "I didn't realize…I got back as soon as I could."

"Did you get our present, Dad?" Dean asked eagerly, brushing off the apology.

"'Course he did, Dean!" said Sam brightly. "That's why you're home early, right, Daddy? 'Cos it worked?"

John chuckled into Sam's neck. He'd been played, guilt-tripped into coming back early— but somehow he really didn't mind. "Yes, I got your present—and I love it."

"Daddy, your voice sounds funny…are you crying?" Sam asked sympathetically as Dean elbowed him to shut up. John set Sam and Dean back on the ground, finally giving into the demands of his stiff, sore back. Sam glared at Dean for elbowing him. "'Cos it's okay if you are."

John had hoped they wouldn't notice in the quickly-darkening evening, wiping his streaming eyes with the back of his hand and coughed gruffly. _Pull yourself together, soldier._ "Just glad to see you boys, I guess," he said, feeling Sam's little hand interlace in his larger hand, which he gave a reassuring squeeze. Sam leaned into his side, resting his head against the pleat of his jeans.

Dean was equally ill-at-ease with crying and emotional scenes as his father. Sam was the one who was big on caring and sharing hugging and getting feelings out in the open. At five years old Dean already liked to call his little brother a drama queen. Dean, eager for a change of conversation, asked his father meaningfully, "Did you get anything else, Dad?"

"Yeah—I almost got two speeding tickets on the way here," John ignored the protests in his aching back muscles as he bent down and slicked his hand back over Dean's hair, whispering in his ear, "…and more than I bargained for. I'll tell you later." Dean gave the slightest of nods, proud to have the honor of being his father's trusted confidant.

John straightened up, noticing Bobby watching them from the porch with his arms crossed. "C'mon, boys," said John, finally shutting his car door and stepping forward, one hand intertwined with Sam's and the other on Dean's shoulder, flanking him on either side as he steered them towards the house.

"John," Bobby said, casting him a cursory nod. John picked up on his disdain even if his boys didn't. He knew Bobby was of the opinion that a hunter should go into permanent retirement when they had kids, had argued about it with him in the past and knew neither of them had quite let bygones be bygones. "You're back early. Must've been an easy sell," Bobby said, keeping up the charade that John was a traveling salesman to protect Sam from the truth.

"Well, it took a little persuading," John said, sharply realizing how his ribs were still screaming in protest at the simple act of breathing.

"Well," said the other hunter, clearing his throat. "Good you decided to come back now you've run out of important things to do. Either that or you found a calendar."

"I'm right where I want to be," John responded, keeping his voice as politely casual with snarky subtext as Bobby. "Boys should be with their Daddy on Father's Day."

Bobby gave the slightest snort of derision, barely perceptible to Sam and Dean. "For what's left of it," he muttered, turning and going back into his house.

John glanced down to either side of him, looking right into Sam and Dean's matching green eyes in turn as he said, "I'm sorry, boys. I forgot what day it was…I should have been here."

"Yeah," said Sam unabashedly, nodding his head in agreement. Dean hissed, "_Sammy!" _before looking up at John and saying, "It's okay, Dad. You're here now. That's what matters."

John was already familiar with how his boys handled his shortcomings; Sam bluntly telling him like it is and holding him accountable, Dean excusing him with his unconditional forgiveness. At that moment, he didn't feel deserving of either of them.

"Are you idjits gonna come inside or just stay out there and get eaten alive by mosquitoes?" they heard Bobby holler from the house.

"Boys, go get ready for bed," said John, giving Sam and Dean a gentle push forward. They both hesitated on the first step up to the door, wanting him to follow. "I'll…I'll be in in a minute. Go on."

Dean grabbed Sam's hand and ushered his reluctant brother up the steps. Dean paused at the door, casting a concerned look at his father over his shoulder before dragging Sam into the house.

John turned away from the house, running his calloused hand over his bearded face and aiming all his shame, fury and self-loathing at the front tire of one of Bobby's old junker cars, the toe of his steel-toed boot sinking into the deflated rubber and hitting the rim. The broken, Godless man threw back his head and found himself staring heavenward at the darkening skies, where the first evening stars were appearing.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he choked out. "I'm so sorry…"

John Winchester cast his eyes back to the ground, manning up as he squared his shoulders and marched into the house to rejoin his sons and enjoy what was left of Father's Day.

The End

...

AN: This killed me to write as a John fan, and I wanted to explore some of what he must have felt the times when he wasn't there for Sam and Dean when he knew he should have been. There's plenty of John haters out there, but I'm sure they've got nothing on how he felt about himself at times! I tried to add sweet moments to balance out the bitter. I hope you all enjoyed, and if you did-drop me a review! I like reviews...


End file.
